Perilous Podcasting Preparation

Vowing to become blood brothers with Mike Cormier should I ever get to Michigan

I was invited to be on The Inner Circle Studio podcast by Mike Cormier, after my cousin the actor appeared and lied about me.

That’s really his name: My Cousin the Actor. Kind of like My Mother the Car, which was a real TV show before I was born. It was about a guy’s mom being reincarnated as a classic car and talking to him through his radio.

If that was me, I’d have to disconnect the radio after the third hour of hearing the latest dirty deeds Donald Trump pulled on the American people.

I get it, mom. The news is kind of my job.

I didn’t know Mike, but my cousin (the actor) told me he’s great, and it’ll help promote my book. Then he suggested I fly to Los Angeles to do so in person.

Which was weird, because I later discovered Mike’s studio was allegedly in Michigan.

I give him credit. That would’ve been an incredible joke.

I reminded my cousin (the actor) I was negotiating to sell a kidney last month until my rent check miraculously cleared, so I wouldn’t be flying anywhere unless he became a pilot without telling me.

The point was to push my book, which needs a push like a couple throttled-up tugboats shoving an aircraft carrier through the Golden Gate.

The morning of said podcast, I showered because who wants a camera zooming onto their hair after losing seven pounds from playing drums the previous evening with his friends?

I hadn’t played in at least a year, so I had a serious dose of extra perspiration.

I made sure not to get soap in my eyes because I didn’t want to resemble Jeff Spicoli falling out of the smoke-filled van in Fast Times at Ridgemont High (I did have those shoes in 1982).

Of course, just as I processed that thought, I jammed a blob of shampoo into my left eye.

So looking like a guy recently introduced to Mike Tyson’s right hook, I moved on to shave. I haven’t removed the chin hair in at least a couple years because it’s actually chins hair. I’m not sure how many I have now, and don’t want to know.

Then I went ahead and shaved a hole in it.

Not in my chin - they don’t sell razors that dangerous. But my semi-beared looked like an aerial view of loggers finishing a swath of forest. So the whole thing had to go.

Yep - still there.

Then it was time to choose a shirt. Pants don’t matter on Zoom and matter less as you get older. Meaning by the time I’m 80, I’ll likely have multiple restraining orders barring me from most grocery stores and within 100 yards of elementary schools.

I moved to choose the all-important shirt and laid out my two initial choices: My brand new The Empire Strikes Back shirt for which I just made a special trip to Old Navy because it was on sale, or the KISS shirt showing them as comic book characters, breathing fire, shooting lasers, and generally looking awesome.

I got to thinking … Empire Strikes Back and KISS.

Holy cow. I’m still 12.

Realizing no author gets literary groupies acting like they’re 12 - I usually pretend I’m age appropriate for a couple dates before springing it on them - I selected a bluish-purple shirt of solid color.

Of course - as is the case whenever I do something involving a recording, photos, or a public appearance in front of more than a single human - I’d developed a new pimple overnight. I’ve come to expect those and really wasn’t too bothered.

The conversation went really well. Mike and I have a lot in common and vowed to become blood brothers should I ever find myself in Michigan. Along with my cousin (the actor), we later vowed via email to go on a Stand By Me-ish adventure once one of us hears about a dead body on some railroad tracks.

Of course I said too much once or twice, which is par for the course.

I once nailed a second interview for a spokesperson job with a public agency I actually like. As I was shaking hands with the board members afterward, I uttered something offhandedly to one of them, to which she replied “Oh, so you’re pointing out I’m older than you.” I froze, then gave up and said “Welp, I guess I just blew this one.” She just smiled back, without any humor.

Right. Spokespeople can’t say things they immediately wish they didn’t say.

I’ll let you know when the podcast is available.

My daughters have a dad to feed, so please consider paying $8 a month to read these columns. Find more nonsense in Tony’s book “Lying Drunk,” available from Barnes & Noble at https://bit.ly/46xoaJJ or Amazon at https://a.co/d/cYNCUPp).